Insanity and Clarity
by Lafayette1777
Summary: Murder and movies. John and Sherlock. Chaos and peace. Life at 221b Baker Street.


**Author's Note: Okay, I've officially been introduced to Sherlock, and like everyone else on earth, become completely obsessed! And so this fanfic was born. Because Johnlock forever! And I really like the format of kind of a subtle romance between them because they're not big on the feelings sharing. That's what I was going for, at least. I have no idea how it turned out. Let's just say this story is the product of many late nights and a lot of crying about the Reichenbach Fall. So who the hell knows what's in it. Enjoy and please review! Oh, and bonus points if you guess what the movies that I reference are (though they are a bit vague). :)**

He settles himself into a quiet evening, surrounded by soft things and warm tea and a waiting movie. Living with Sherlock doesn't exactly invite prolonged relaxation, and though John generally can accept this, it doesn't stop him from cramming in a moment of peace when the opportunity presents itself. Currently, the arguable sociopath is sitting silently in the kitchen, among piles of lab equipment, staring determinedly into a microscope without the slightest movement to even suggest he's still alive. Though Sherlock is known to be unpredictable, one look at his current state gives the heavy impression of stagnation, at least for the time being.

So John stations himself on the couch, with laptop at low volume, a cup of tea, two blankets and suitable pillow for a headrest. The movie's a recommendation from a colleague, and she's told him that the ending will catch him off guard. As if he is in need of a little mystery in his life. He presses play and waits for his mind to be blown, sipping contentedly at his mug.

Three quarters in and John breaks away from the storyline for a moment, and finds that Sherlock has literally not moved an inch from his seated position over the microscope. _Maybe he _is_ dead_, John thinks, speculating on whether he should get up and check for a pulse. _Eh, he can wait till the end of the movie. If he's dead he's not going anywhere._

With a frown, John realizes it's probably best not to make assumptions about Sherlock Holmes, dead or alive.

And so the movie continues, and he uses his learned deduction skills to try to guess at the supposed twist. Nothing is coming to him, but it's enjoyable, nonetheless. It's a split second before what seems to be the big reveal, when Sherlock speaks, his baritone filling the apartment.

"They're the same person," he says, in a bored, withering tone.

"What?" John pauses the movie, almost thinking he's imagined Sherlock's voice around the audio, but it's hard to imagine the statue like figure behind him could possibly manage words in his current state of concentration.

"That's the twist, John," he clarifies, without looking up from his work. "The two men in the movie. Same person, split personalities."

"What? No it's not. How could you possibly know, anyways? Haven't even been watching the movie," John replies incredulously. "Makes no sense."

Sherlock doesn't say anything more, simply changing the slide beneath his eyes.

And so John presses play again, giving his full attention to characters. Ten minutes later, he's stopped it again.

"Have you seen it?" he asks, biting his bottom lip.

"I told you, all films are boring and predictable."

"You weren't even watching!"

"I could hear it."

John closes the laptop, not sure if he's irritated or amazed or somewhere in between. But that confluence of emotions is not overly unusual when dealing with Sherlock. "Unbelievable."

m m m

"Grab you coat, John, there's been another murder."

He's not quite smiling, but his flurry of activity is certainly giving off an excited err, and John begins to remind him to tone it down for the crime scene. He's already flying out the door before words can make it to his lips.

Lestrade wipes powdered sugar off his hands as he delivers the case file, and despite Sherlock's elation at the presentation of a grisly murder, Lestrade still earns himself a patronizing eyebrow lift as he brushes white powder onto his black pants.

"Good luck, then," the detective inspector remarks, with a hint of bitterness. "Lord knows we need it, as usual."

Sherlock doesn't reply, eyes flashing back and forth across the page.

Thirty minutes later they're standing in front of a mid sized park on the outskirts of the city, watching the coroners haul a single body bag out of the trees and into a waiting ambulance.

Sherlock is pacing, hands raised, murmuring intermittently to John, to Lestrade, and to himself. One of the paramedics approaches John wearily, observing the scene a moment before speaking.

"Is he having a psychotic break?" she asks, only half joking.

"Oh, no, he's just thinking," John replies. "I mean, probably."

A minute passes, and then Sherlock gasps in his usual striking tone of realization, and then speaks very quickly and decisively in their general direction. At lightning speed, they have an in depth profile of the kind of person who axes their victims and then covers the body in little known poetry.

"Sounds like a psychopath," Anderson mutters, with more than a tint of malice.

"Sod off, Anderson," John throws over his shoulder, before falling into a jog to follow Sherlock's determined pace into the center of the park.

m m m

The next time he tries for a movie night, he goes for a separate room and an even lower volume. His colleague at the doctor's office has made a habit of recommending him movies that bend your mind, and has warned him that he shouldn't let anyone spoil the ending of this one.

"You don't know who I live with," John replies, with a grim little smile and a hand out to accept the DVD.

He chooses his bedroom as a suitable to spot to hideout away from his roommate, who seems to be having a power nap on the sofa. He nestles himself in cross legged, back against the head of the bed and laptop on top his legs. This time it's a cold beer and some surprisingly bland Chinese food.

He's gotten through nearly the entire movie before he hears footsteps approaching his open door.

"Tea, John?" Sherlock asks, in what John has taken to calling on of his "fits of decency."

"No, that's alright," John replies without looking up from the screen.

Sherlock rolls his eyes at his companion's preoccupation with the film. "The psychiatrist is dead, you know."

"Bullshit."

"That's why only the child can see him."

"Christ, how'd you know this time? And don't tell me you overheard because even for you that's impossible."

"You left the DVD case on the kitchen counter. I read the back of it," he gives him a pitying stare. "Honestly, John, it wasn't astrophysics." And with that, he glides back down the stairs, leaving John's jaw on the floor and his eyes locked in a glare.

m m m

Spending the cold, drizzling evening in a motionless taxi with Sherlock Holmes is not exactly how John pictured his Saturday night going, but he can think of worse things. There is a bit of thrill to a stakeout, a sort of tense, nervous excitement that he's sure would wear off if he did it more often with a less interesting person. They wait, clinging to cups of coffee and watching the forested park across the street, speaking to each other without making eye contact. Late night joggers rush by the darkened woods, a few unfortunate souls trudge through the mist to a second job. Nothing seems amiss.

At midnight, John realizes his caffeine well is empty. "I'm getting more coffee," he declares, with a tired rub at his left eye. "You need some?"

"Yes, my usual," he replies as John reaches for the door handle and steps one foot it onto the sepia tinged pavement. "And do be alert. I don't fancy seeing poorly written haikus etched into your epidermis."

"Haikus? Ugh, me neither."

They both snicker at this before John heads the block down the street to the nearest 24 hour cafe. He's blinded by fluorescent lights for ten minutes while the man in front of him very slowly buys eight drinks, all very specific and complicated, to a barista whose pupils are the size of saucers.

When he returns, a warm cup in each hand, Sherlock is gone, and the cabbie is pointing one weathered finger into the darkened park.

"Balls," John mutters.

m m m

He resorts to headphones for the third film handed over to him in the office, even going to extent of making sure Sherlock isn't even home. He's out on the town, doing god knows what in the middle of the day, and so John microwaves a meal, commandeers an armchair and submerges himself in someone else's world.

The headphones, he discovers, are surprisingly noise proof.

"He is the escaped mental patient," Sherlock has materialized behind him, leaning over the back of his chair and not only causing him to levitate both his body and his heartbeat, but also to spoil the ending by watching silently for all of four minutes.

"Goddammit, Sherlock," John snaps his laptop shut aggressively, pulling off the headphones. "Why would you do that?"

The expression on the other man's face confirms his suspicions that this is an extremely stupid thing to ask.

"Never mind," he says, realizing this is getting him nowhere. Sherlock does what he wants. "I'll be upstairs."

He glances backward just moment before he's out of view, and sees Sherlock gazing intently at the floor, fingers twiddling against the back of John's now abandoned armchair, eyes surprisingly far away.

m m m

He uses his cell phone screen as a flashlight to navigate the narrow pathway through the trees. The park breathes with insect life, but the rhythm is interrupted every few moments by the sounds of the city - the beep of a car horn, a pub's loud beat, a whisper of a domestic argument floating on the air.

John can focus on none of these human sounds, though, keeping his mind on avoiding roots and staying his finger next to the trigger of the handgun he carries with him. He is poised for the slightest movement among the woods, but all is predictable until he nears the center of the park.

Finally, he steps into a clearing of sorts, about four meters across with a picnic table in the center. Next to it, a figure is lying on the ground, unmoving. Another figure is squatting next to it, hands moving deliberately but gently, before standing suddenly. Even in the dark it's undeniably Sherlock, but John doesn't call out, fearing they may not be alone. He approaches on feet that know to make no sound. Sherlock seems to sense him, though, he turns around when John is a meter away, without any surprise at seeing him.

He's a second away from calling out when Sherlock's eyes dodge to somewhere behind him. Everything slows, and suddenly John can see the other man thinking, see the depth behind the eyes as he works through what he's just observed, whatever it is. Sherlock is in motion before John has even taken a breath.

Next thing he knows, his face is in the dirt, and both of Sherlock's arms are holding him down. He manages to wiggle around enough to turn his head, in time to see Sherlock turning to face a stranger, a stranger raising something large and heavy above it's head.

Sherlock moves, but not quickly enough.

He misses the majority of the blow, or at least that's how it looks to John, but clearly some part of the swinging object still connects with his head and he slumps to the ground. John doesn't have time to think; already, what appears to be an axe, silhouetted in black against the sky, is swinging toward him and he's desperately trying to get his legs to work again and to untangle himself from the limp form of Sherlock.

He leaps to his feet in time to miss the first blow, but a second is coming down without warning and only just barely slides by his head, glancing off his shoulder with an explosion of pain. He doesn't wait for the axe to swing again, simply lifts his uninjured arm, takes aim, and puts two bullets in the left chest of their assailant without hesitation. The figure crumples.

He pays no mind to the fallen attacker, though, as the unconscious Sherlock requires his attention immediately. Once again he uses his phone as a source of light, finding the other man's thankfully steady pulse. There's a long gash on his head from the blunt side of the axe, coating half his pale face in liquid that looks black in contrast. John deems his pupils still even, determines he'll need stitches and probably a check for a concussion. He got off easy, considering that it was a confrontation with a now thoroughly dead axe murderer.

John looks to the first body, the one he'd seen Sherlock leaning over when he'd first entered the clearing. He's pretty damn dead too, head split open, clothes stripped, and only the first word of a new haiku etched in painstakingly. A preliminary glance at the gore surrounding the body and for the first time that night John is glad for the darkness.

Next, he crawls toward the murderer, gun still locked and ready. She, amazingly, still has some life in her, but she's choking on her own blood, taking shallow, impossible breaths. The axe has slipped fingers and John kicks it farther away. She is brunette and just seeing the contours of her face he can tell she is petite. Maybe a long time ago, sje was attractive. Even in his haze of shock and the dark beyond his ring of white LED light, he can see the madness in her eyes. The fear and the utter madness before it all slips away.

_A female serial killer,_ he thinks. _Wonder if even Sherlock saw that one coming._

He tries to remember if Sherlock ever mentioned a specific gender. He must have had his suspicions, with all the victims males. But she must have covered her tells well, if Sherlock wasn't confident enough to voice his assumption yet.

He must have seen something from the cab when John had gone to get coffee. Maybe he saw the victim and the killer enter the forest together. Maybe the victim wandered in of his own accord, as though he were to meet her. But Sherlock knew.

But not as much as he has in the past.

Maybe its just the unusualness of the case, the complete irregularity of every factor involved. And, as always, Sherlock is a step ahead of everyone else. But somehow it's not as striking as it has been on previous cases.

John wonders vaguely if he's actually just observed Sherlock Holmes having an off day.

He puts these thoughts on hold, scrabbling with a wince to his feet. His shoulder's aching and already feeling uncomfortably sticky, but it's not too much to bear. He leans toward the entirely limp Sherlock, picking him up and with a groan sliding him over his uninjured shoulder. He's heavier than his thin frame suggests, lanky limbs practically trailing on the ground as John stumbles back toward civilization, dialing Lestrade as he goes.

m m m

He's pulling on a jumper to head home through the cold air when she stops him by the door, holding out a film in characteristic plastic case.

"I know you said that there's no hope that it won't be spoiled," she says kindly, while simultaneously pulling off her stethoscope. "But this one isn't so much a twist as much as an ambiguous ending. Maybe he won't be able to guess it."

He gives her a skeptical smile.

"It's really good!" she begs. She had the demeanor of a twelve year old pleading for a new skirt.

Finally, he gives in, because she reminds him a bit of his youngest cousin who he's never been able to say no to. He takes the movie from her. "I'll watch it as soon as possible."

m m m

He leaves Lestrade and Donovan to deal with the crime scene after debriefing them on his version of events, the paramedics eventually forcing him into an ambulance and getting him to apply pressure to his shoulder wound. It's the same shoulder he was shot in not so long ago, and maybe that's why the pain is somehow more muted than it should be. At least, it's certainly not making him pray to God.

Sherlock has stirred, but has not awoken fully yet. John realizes gee just have been hit harder than he initially thought. Inside the hospital, Sherlock is pushed away, hopefully into trustworthy hands.

John is left in the ER, a young doctor, carefully cutting off his now ruined coat and shirt from his shoulder. He winces as he pulls away a little fabric too quickly.

"You have an old scar here," the doctor says, a kid who looks like he's barely out of medical school and with an American accent. "Bullet?"

"Afghanistan."

"Wow. And the new wound?"

"Axe murderer."

"Thought so," he says, reaching out one gloved hand to inspect it. "Sounds like an eventful life."

"You have no idea."

The doctor raises one amused, dark eyebrow. John thinks it's a funny expression, and finds himself trying to deduce his secrets in a much more amateur fashion than Sherlock ever has.

The doctor, his badge says his last name is _Solomon_, appears to be part Middle Eastern, or possibly northern Indian. His dark hair is a little unruly for someone trying to look official. His hands are exceptionally calloused for someone his age and profession. His eyes, though focused as he cleans the wound, immediately bound about the room the moment he breaks away for second, taking in everything in the crowded hospital basement all at once. And when he shifts slightly, so does the edge of his shirt collar, and John can just see the edge of a long, white scar, finishing dangerously close to his neck.

He observes all this and yet still he can draw no conclusions.

For the first time, simply out of curiosity, he finds himself wishing for Sherlock to be here, to tell him everyone's secrets. He's become so used to it he feels irritated and confused without it's presence. He's not sure if this is a development that foreshadows further doom and unhappiness, or if this foreign feeling of synchronization with another person is what he's been waiting for his entire life.

Dr. Solomon sutures efficiently with surprising speed, John looking on interestedly, as he always does. Sometimes it's paranoia and worry that his doctors will be imperfect, sometimes it's just to admire their work. He's never been a beautiful stitcher, but working when bullets were flying from all directions and there was the constant of worry of death by explosion sure as hell got him moving fast when repairing wounds, a skill he still possesses. Solomon is a little slower, a little more careful, but maintains remarkable speed. He finishes his last knot and tapes gauze over what the axe has inflicted.

"Just shallow enough to miss the bone," he says, trying to clean off some of the now dry blood from John's shoulder and neck. "And just escaped getting a new scar over that bullet hole."

"I guess I'm just a lucky guy."

Solomon strips off his gloves, holds out a hand. "Thank you for your service," he says, in a very cotillion-educated, yet still sincere, sort of way.

Nonetheless, it takes John a moment to realize he's referring to the military, and then he has no idea what to say. "Oh, right, yes...er, you're welcome."

Solomon just smiles. "Nothing you haven't heard before on your wound. Minimal activity, come in to get the stitches removed in a month. Or I suppose you could do it yourself."

John leaves the ER soon afterward, and begins to scour the halls for Sherlock. A nurse directs him down the hall, and in the doorway to the ward that she's pointed him toward he nearly smashes into a doctor, a woman in her forties with graying blonde hair.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes?" he asks, already peering past her to see into the unit behind her.

"Oh, yes, I've just seen him," she replies. "Who are you?"

"John Watson. Flatmate."

Her eyebrows lift slightly, but she continues. "He's been asking for you."

"He's awake?"

"And sarcastic."

John frowns, but it eases his worry slightly. "How is he?"

"We sealed the wound on his head, but he's got a bit of a concussion. I'd like to keep him for observation for a bit."

He's already pushing past her into the room where Sherlock lies on the thin hospital bed, still in his suit pants and now blood stained dress shirt. Half of his forehead is bandaged and he's poking at it the wrappings experimentally.

"Leave it be," John says, walking wearily toward him. Exhaustion in the aftermath of the late evening and the abundance of stress has set in, and suddenly every step is a monumental effort.

Sherlock lets his hand fall. "What's wrong with you?"

"Almost everything."

"Your shoulder," though he's put his black coat back on over the blood and gauze, Sherlock sees throughs everything, as expected.

"Axe caught me. How are you feeling?"

"I have headache. Can we leave now?"

"You have a concussion," he falls into a waiting plastic chair a few feet from the bed.

"Is there a point somewhere in that statement that I'm missing?"

"You can't overexert yourself. They want to keep an eye on you. And what's the hurry?"

"You're a doctor, John, I'm sure you can look after me just fine. And that's an impressively moronic question, even for you."

They stare at each other witheringly for a moment.

"The case, John, it must be solved!"

John pauses. _That's right, _he thinks, _he doesn't know yet._ "Murderer's dead. I shot her myself after you were knocked out."

"She...I thought so...," he goes silent for a moment. "And tonight's scheduled victim is dead?"

"We were too late," he replies, and Sherlock scowls. John pauses. "Does that bother you, that we weren't fast enough?"

"Why should it?"

"Someone died."

"We found the killer," he says with an unreadable expression. "Eventually."

Mycroft appears then, and Sherlock gives a massive eye roll. "I'm surprised you weren't here sooner, brother. I thought your surveillance was a bit tighter than that."

"It is more than fine, Sherlock, I assure you," he's scowling half heartedly. "But I cannot simply stop whatever I'm doing at all hours to go rescue my baby brother."

"Well, I don't think any rescuing is necessary. John and I are leaving," he begins to rise stiffly from the bed. "I suppose the prime minister has been assassinated in your absence?"

Sherlock is a little unsteady on his feet, but manages to grab his coat and make it to the door. John follows, as always, but Mycroft stops him before he can leave the room. "How is he?" he asks in an undertone.

"He's stubborn, but he'll be fine. I'll look after him."

Mycroft looks only slightly less tense. "He's had an off day, hasn't he?"

"I guess."

"Happens every once in a while. I personally believe he burns himself out every now and again. He denies any existence of these weak moments but I know he's not oblivious. Not the same reaction as most people, obviously, when they are overworked. He still remains brilliant, but not quite _as_ brilliant, you see," his frown deepens. "Mostly his reaction is just to do something that worries me more than usual. I would have been here sooner, truly, but I was...well, work, you can imagine.

"My point is, watch him tonight."

"You think...?"

"I would not be surprised if he was craving at the moment."

John sets his lips in a grim line, knowing there will be no sleeping tonight, no matter how desperately he wants it. "Alright."

They part ways in the hall, where Mycroft gives him a solemn nod and stalks off, twirling his umbrella moodily. In the opposite direction, Sherlock is arguing with the blonde doctor John had talked to earlier.

"John, good, please inform this incessantly annoying woman that you, unlike her, are a thoroughly competent physician and are more than qualified to observe me for a few hours in the comfort of my own home."

John approaches the woman with a small sympathetic smile. "He's a tad worked up, isn't he? I wouldn't take it personally."

m m m

Three weeks later, Sherlock is glaring at the kitchen counter, occasionally adjusting to better ease John's precise movements. Though most his forehead is numbed, every now again he'll jerk slightly, not necessarily in pain but in instinct to what should be painful. He hears the click of John's hemostats, and a moment later he has the vague sensation of the last suture being pulled from his skin. He places a band aid over the red line and steps back with a paper towel full of bits of braided silk.

"All done," he says, heading to the sink to wash his hands.

"Are you going out tonight?" Sherlock asks, stepping off his stool.

"Err...no. Why would I?"

"Well, you have been known to have dates on occasion, John."

"I've mostly give up on all that, putting myself out there," he says with a grim little smile, leaning against the counter. "Haven't had much luck, have I?"

"You've given up on women?"

"I figure if I'm meant for a relationship, then they'll come to me, because I'm not doing so good going to them," he heads back into the living room, head swiveling around as if searching for something. "Who knows, maybe I've already met them."

Sherlock watched him from the kitchen, his eyes following the other man's searching movements. "Maybe."

John finds what he's looking for—the final DVD from the woman at the office. He glances back at Sherlock, seeming very regal silhouetted against the dying light of the sky in his black suit, and then back down at the film.

"Is there any possible way I'm going to be able to watch this without incidence?"

"Only one way to find out."

John decides that he can get away with actually using the television to watch this one, so he slides it into the DVD player and plops down on the couch. To his surprise, Sherlock joins him, slinging one arm over the back of the sofa and pulling his legs up into a crossed position, letting himself lean on John to face the screen. And it's actually relaxing, just sitting together between cases, between drama, between danger. Sherlock has been clean off any substance since the night in the park, or so far as John knows. And he's only a little disappointed he wasn't lead to wherever the secret stash is kept. But he supposes that that little bit of mystery is a good thing.

Three quarters into the movie and Sherlock has not only said nothing as to the direction of the plot, but John's passed out, heading lolling onto Sherlock's shoulder. The movie ends only a few minutes later, a cliffhanger, but naturally Sherlock has seen right through it. He slips out from underneath his companion, but not before whispering into his ear conspiratorially in reference to the film, "The top will stop spinning. He's no longer dreaming. His paradise is finally the reality."

John doesn't stir, breathing even and undisturbed.


End file.
